The heart of the place felt clogged and close to giving up.
Helen walked along the High Street. The usual chains: Boots, Argos, the compulsory Starbucks. There seemed to be an inordinate number of places to eat - McDonald’s, KFC, Jenny’s Burgers, Nando’s, Chicken Cottage - interspersed with pound shops and low-end grocers’. She could picture the look of horror on Jenny’s face.
‘What, no M and S? And how far is the nearest Waitrose?’
Within an hour, Helen had spoken to a dozen or more people, found locations where it was not unnatural to fall into conversation: waiting for a cashpoint, at a bus stop, in the queue in a small baker’s. Not produced her warrant card. She’d decided that the conversations would be more illuminating without it, and she did not want to risk being seen by any of the officers who were investigating the murders officially.
People had plenty to say; had opinions that they were more than keen to pass on. Deeply felt, dismissive or, to Helen’s mind, plain ridiculous.
‘Life’s not worth tuppence round here right now, that’s the truth.’
‘No more than some of these little bastards deserve.’
‘So where d’you think all these guns are coming from? Ask yourself that. Who supplies them? The government, that’s who. They want us to kill each other.’
Helen walked away from the main street, across Lee Bridge and into the quieter areas behind the station. Over towards the estates: the Lee Marsh, the Kidbrooke, the Downton and the Orchard. There were plenty of youngsters hanging around, enjoying the sunshine. And more than enough men in uniform eager to pass the time of day with them.
At an intersection, where two police vans were parked, she saw a smallish crowd gathered in front of a mural. People were taking photographs, and a camera crew had set up and was doing vox pops. There was rap music coming from a portable beat box on the pavement.
She read the dedication: ‘Michael Williamson. 1992-2008.’
A column of graffiti ran down one side: a list of signatures, tags sprayed against a white background designed to look like a scroll. A roll of honour. Helen stared at the multicoloured tangle of swirls and symbols on the brickwork. She couldn’t decipher most of the names, but made out a few.
Wave. With three wavy blue lines underneath, like the sea.
Sugar Boy.
Easy. With ‘S & S’ in a circle beside the name; the letters drawn as hissing snakes.
On the far side of the street, near the entrance to the Lee Marsh, Helen saw a cluster of boys lurking by a low block of garages. She wandered across, aware of the looks being exchanged when they saw that she was coming. There were six or seven and she doubted any of them was yet a teenager. Pointless to speculate as to whether they’d be in school if it were not the summer holidays, or to presume for one second that they were too young to be tied up with one of the local crews. Not for the first time, Helen wondered why CP units such as her own didn’t spend much more time trying to protect children before the damage was done.
She nodded back towards the wall, to the man with the camera and his colleague sticking a microphone into the faces of passers-by. ‘They’re talking about a gang war,’ she said.
All except two of the kids began to drift away, seemingly unconcerned, joking with one another as they went, but keen to put distance between themselves and the conversation. Of the pair who were left, it was immediately clear that the shorter boy was the more talkative; but that was not saying a great deal.
‘Talking about all sorts,’ he said. ‘They don’t know nothing.’
‘What do you think?’
The sullen expression on the boy’s face changed. It was only for a second, but in that moment Helen could tell he was pleased to have been asked his opinion. The boy wore jeans and a baggy basketball shirt, and his hair had been cut very short. When he turned slightly, Helen could see that some kind of pattern had been shaved into the back. ‘If it’s a war, the other crew won’t know what’s hit them, man.’
‘Who’s the other crew?’
The boy shrugged, glanced at his friend. The other boy was gangly and unco-ordinated, as awkward as a baby giraffe. He kicked at the ground and spun slowly round on one leg; took a couple of steps away; turned and ambled back.
‘Are you in that crew?’ Helen nodded back towards the mural.
‘Maybe,’ the chatty boy said. He stuck his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans and spread his short legs. He was at least a foot shorter than Helen.
‘You know the people on that list? Wave and Sugar Boy?’
‘Everyone knows Wave.’
‘Is he the leader?’
The boy shrugged again. His friend sucked his teeth, looked like he was ready to be on his way.
‘If it’s not a war, who do you think killed Michael and . . . the other boy?’ Helen had heard the second boy’s name on the news, but it had slipped her mind.
‘Mikey and SnapZ,’ the boy said.
‘Why were Mikey and SnapZ killed? What do you think?’
The boy cocked his head, like he was mulling it over. Helen gave him the time, looked from one boy to the other; at the attitude and bum-fluff. She had no idea what either of them might be capable of, but still felt like she might be able to buy information from them with sweets and fizzy drinks.
‘Disrespected someone, maybe,’ the kid said.
‘Who?’
‘Doesn’t matter. That’s enough, you get me?’
‘I think so.’
‘You got to have a rep and you got to keep it, yeah? You got to be the buff man and that means stepping up to anyone who don’t behave the way they should. I’m telling you, man, anyone try to boy me they better be ready to pay.’
Helen nodded to show she understood.
‘Everyone knows that. Mikey, SnapZ, everyone . . .’
‘How does someone join the crew?’ Helen asked, like it had just popped into her head. ‘Is there like an initiation kind of thing?’
The boy tilted up his chin. ‘You some sort of undercover copper?’
Helen felt herself blush, felt it deepen as the taller boy stepped forward and looked her up and down; as she saw something that should not have been there in his eyes. She had no doubt that these boys were already sexually active, that they had ceased to be children in all the ways that mattered.
The taller boy sent a thin string of spit from between his teeth. Said, ‘You fat or just pregnant, man?’
It took Helen ten minutes to walk the relatively short distance back to the High Street. Walking was becoming increasingly difficult, as was driving, with her seat pushed right back away from her belly and her feet struggling to reach the pedals. That morning, at her final antenatal appointment, the doctor had smiled and told her that everything was fine. All the boxes had been ticked. ‘Just sit around all day and spoil yourself,’ he’d said. ‘Get ready for the big day. It’ll soon be over.’
So what the hell was she doing trudging around Lewisham, sweating and feeling stupid? Wasting her time. Feeling further out of her depth than she could ever remember.
She thought about how those boys had made her feel. She’d been in more dangerous situations, after all. She’d been physically threatened by a predatory paedophile in an interview room and had stared him down, yet now two children had unnerved her to the point where she could still feel the tremor in her legs.
For once, the urge to turn on her heel had been stronger than the urge to lash out.
Helen knew that having a child changed you in fundamental ways; she’d seen it in Jenny. She knew that it made you less confrontational and less inclined to take any sort of risk. Paul had asked her once during a particularly nasty argument if she really thought she’d be able to hack it when she went back. If she honestly thought she could handle the Job; her Job especially.
She’d laughed it off back then, but she wasn’t finding the suggestion particularly funny any more.
Back at the shopping centre, she decided to call into the supermarket
and pick up a few things for dinner. Struggling out through the doors, she collided with a baby-buggy and dropped one of her carrier bags. As she watched the young mother walk away without a backward glance, a teenage boy stepped out of the newsagent’s next door and walked across.
‘You OK?’
Helen delved into the bag and was annoyed to see that two of her six eggs were smashed. ‘Just about,’ she said.
The boy took the egg box, carried the mess across to a bin a few yards away, then walked back. ‘That was out of order.’
‘It’s not like she couldn’t see me,’ Helen said.
He waited until she was steady, with a bag in each hand, then nodded and walked away. She thanked him, but he was already lighting a cigarette, hurrying to get across the road before the signal changed. Helen shouted after him and the boy stopped on the far side, pointing at himself to be sure it was him she was calling out to.
By the time Helen had caught up with him she was out of breath. ‘You couldn’t give me a hand with these to the car, could you?’
They walked back across the road in silence, and around the corner of the shopping centre, moving through the crowds towards the car park entrance.
‘You live round here?’ Helen asked.
‘Over there.’ The boy nodded towards the estates.
‘I’ve not exactly had a great day. So, you know, this is . . .’
Another boy came striding towards them, slowed as he got close and grinned at the boy with the shopping bags. ‘You’re a seriously dark horse, T,’ he said. He nodded towards Helen. ‘Got yourself a nice lickle MILF tucked away.’ He winked and pointed at Helen’s belly. ‘That one of yours, is it?’
The boy carrying her bags stepped around, shaking his head, and the other boy moved on, laughing, along the pavement. ‘Sorry.’
Helen shrugged. ‘What’s a MILF?’
‘You don’t want to know.’
‘Like I said, the day can’t get much worse.’
‘Mummy I’d Like to Fuck,’ the boy said. He glanced across as Helen moved to avoid a man with a large dog. ‘Sorry.’
Helen was parked on the first floor of the car park, and the boy waited for her on the stairs, stopping every two or three steps to let her catch up. ‘There’s a lift, you know,’ he said.
Helen leaned against the wall for a second. The narrow stairwell smelled of urine and burgers. ‘If I can’t make one flight of stairs I might as well just curl up and die,’ she said. After she had validated her ticket at the pay station, the two of them walked towards her car. ‘It’s not a nice place to be at the moment, is it?’
The boy looked around.
‘Not the car park,’ Helen said. The boy smiled. ‘Round here generally. ’
‘Pretty sweet if you’re a florist,’ he said. ‘Or if you’re in the mural-painting business.’
‘What’s your business?’
‘Don’t have one.’ He looked at his training shoes. ‘Just try and pick up a bit of cash where I can.’
‘Did you know either of the boys who were killed?’
‘Both of them.’
‘Sorry.’
‘They weren’t friends, exactly. Not proper friends.’
‘Still. Must be scary.’
He shrugged.
‘Think it’ll carry on?’
‘I reckon.’
‘This is me,’ Helen said. ‘Thanks.’ She unlocked the car and the boy lifted her bags into the boot. The sound of cars screeching around the tight corners bounced off the walls on either side of them. She opened the door. ‘Probably a good time to take a holiday, if you ask me.’
The boy finished lighting another cigarette and shook his head, narrowing his eyes as the smoke drifted back into his face. ‘Can’t see me getting on me toes any time soon,’ he said.
‘Well, keep your head down at least, eh?’
‘Yeah.’ He took a drag. ‘You got a name for it?’
Helen was confused for a moment, then he pointed and she realised that he was talking about the baby. ‘No. Not yet.’ She and Paul had tossed names around for a while until he’d found out about the affair. Then the subject was quietly dropped. Now that she had nobody to consult, it was something to which she’d given remarkably little thought. She smiled. ‘Maybe I should name him after you,’ she said. ‘You hear about women doing that, don’t you? Naming their kids after the midwife, or the taxi driver who rushes them to the hospital. Be as good a name as any, probably.’
The boy grinned and shook his head. ‘Seriously bad idea,’ he said.
‘Oh well . . .’
Helen got into the car and yanked at the seat belt. Aware of the boy watching as she reversed out of the tight space. She raised her hand to him as he stood aside to let her drive away.
TWENTY-SIX
It had become a thing now.
There’d been no let up since SnapZ’s death, and there seemed to be cameras on every corner. Hordes of journalists from the big papers as well as the red tops; standing around in those jackets with elbow patches, pointing their recorders at anyone in a hooded top, nodding like hungry dogs and getting hard-ons. All mad keen to get some scoop; to get a bit of that lovely danger on their front pages.
And there was no shortage of people willing to give it to them. Kids who’d never so much as nicked a bag of crisps talking like they were proper gangsters, turning on the talk and walking away with a tenner for their trouble. ‘Make sure you spell my name right, man, you get me?’
Even some of those in the crew were getting in on it.
Theo had seen a bunch of them, Sugar Boy and a few of the others, framed at the end of a dark alleyway at the edge of the estate, turning it on for London Tonight. Some of them were wearing bandannas pulled down over their faces, dark glasses, all that. One idiot was posing with a gun. It might have been his; might have been a replica the TV people gave him. All of them striking their best hard-man poses and gobbing off.
‘You ain’t part of a crew, you got nothing, man.’
‘Closer than family.’
‘When one of your bredren is shot, you all feel it, you get me? You feel it here.’ The fist against the chest, and the nodding.
Theo had wanted to charge across and slap their stupid faces and tell them to shut their mouths. Take the cameraman’s gear and shove it up his arse; smack his fist to his own chest and tell them all that what he felt in there was the same thing that made you stammer and shit your pants. Made it hard to breathe when you were wide awake and staring down at your son in the middle of the night.
He’d been at the stash house since just after eight, had taken to leaving the flat earlier and earlier. Getting his paper and fags, and waiting outside the door for the café to open.
They’d walked in and shot SnapZ in his own place.
Theo had never felt particularly safe at home anyway: people had been knifed in his block often enough. But this was different. Trouble was, what was he supposed to say to Javine? It was tricky to suggest that she should take Benjamin out for the day, stay out until he got back, just in case, you know, someone came knocking with a gun in their hand while he was hiding out like a pussy on the other side of the estate.
Sugar Boy came in around ten-thirty. They talked for a few minutes about what was happening, and Sugar Boy showed Theo the cash he’d made talking shit to reporters. Theo turned on the TV, tried to lose himself in it.
He’d suggested that Javine should pop down and spend a bit more time with his mum, but that hadn’t gone down well. Nothing had been going down too well over the last week or two, if he was honest.
‘Try spending a bit more time with her your own self. And your son too, come to that.’
‘I have to work.’
She didn’t need to say any more. It was there in the way she hoisted up the baby and held him there, rubbing his back while she stared across his shoulder at Theo. Right: out working and being a buff man like your little friend Easy. Like Mikey. Like whoever put a bullet in his
stupid head. A buff man, a proper buff man might think about really taking care of his woman and his son; might think about getting a job where a gun wasn’t a tool of the trade.
But she didn’t know that he’d killed anyone. That someone, for whatever reason, had set about making those responsible pay with their lives. That he couldn’t think straight or make a decision and hadn’t slept or shat properly for a fortnight.
‘We’ll knock on your mum’s door a bit later,’ Javine had said eventually. ‘Pop in for ten minutes, OK?’
She didn’t know that he felt like a sheep, bleating for its life, with a wolf outside the door.
There was still concern in Helen’s mind that anyone investigating Paul might also be interested in her, so when she’d stumbled half asleep to the phone at eight-fifteen and heard an officious-sounding police officer introducing himself, she’d feared the worse.
The panic had subsided when the officer had explained that he was calling to finalise the arrangements for the forwarding of Paul’s pension; to talk through bank details, set up standing orders and so on.
That had heralded a different sort of panic altogether.
Although the funeral arrangements were theoretically in hand, somewhere between Paul’s mother and the Police Federation, Helen knew there was still a raft of administrative duties that would have to be dealt with at some point: the closing of accounts; life insurance; HP payments. The will itself, which she and Paul had made out one afternoon using one of those DIY kits from WH Smith, was fairly straightforward, as far as she could remember, with each of them the sole beneficiary of the other. None of it could be taken care of properly until the inquest had returned a verdict and a death certificate was issued; but even so, she preferred not to think about any of it, at least not until after the baby was born. Her father had volunteered to help out with that side of things, and for once she’d been delighted to take him up on his offer.
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